The Perfume Collector(80)

He shot her a look. ‘And your interests as well,’ he corrected her.

‘And how are matters proceeding, Monsieur Tissot?’ Mallory took a seat, as a waiter brought her a cup. ‘Please, sit down and join us.’

But he remained standing. ‘There have been several new developments. However, I don’t wish to intrude upon your time together.’

‘I would love to see this apartment.’ Mallory looked across at Grace. ‘I find it all so exciting!’

‘It would be my pleasure to arrange another viewing. Let me know when it’s convenient.’

Folding her napkin, Grace stood too. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ She turned to Mallory. ‘Darling, order some tea, will you? I’ll be right back.’

‘Think about the meeting with Madame Hiver,’ Monsieur Tissot advised, as they made their way through the dining room. ‘I would give it serious consideration. Twice the asking price is a great deal of money. By the way,’ he glanced at her sideways, as they strolled into the front lobby, ‘your new hairstyle is very fetching.’

Grace felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Yes, but it failed to throw you off the scent. Perhaps I will have to become a redhead next.’

‘You aren’t going to lose me that easily.’

They’d reached the main entrance.

‘I forgot,’ she held out her hand, ‘you’re a dedicated professional. You won’t rest until that flat is sold.’

He took her hand. ‘That’s certainly part of it.’

He gave her fingers a squeeze, then released her. ‘I will be in contact when I’ve arranged the meeting. And I would be grateful if in future you would be so kind as to return my calls.’

With a little bow, he left.

Grace headed back into the dining room and sat down.

Mallory bit into a croissant. ‘Well, he’s certainly very attentive,’ she said with a smile.

‘He’s just doing his job.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘So, what are your plans for today?’

‘Well, I’m practically almost completely at your disposal. Only I’ve got a luncheon arranged with Tippi Miller who’s on her way back from Nice and is only here for two nights. She’s staying at the Ritz and I know she’d love to see you,’ she added hopefully.

‘God save me from Tippi Miller!’ Graced groaned, filling her cup again. ‘She’s a terrible gossip. No sooner is someone’s back turned than she’s sticking a knife in it. What are you thinking of, Mal?’

‘She rang me. Besides,’ she added with a little shrug, ‘everyone becomes a friend when you’re in a foreign country.’ She leaned forward. ‘She’s been up and down the French Riviera for a month and yes, she will be choking with gossip and I want to hear it all first-hand. She’s already told me she only just avoided being named in a divorce suit, also that she gambled away her mother’s diamonds one night and had to do unspeakable things to a Swiss banker to get them back. And apparently three very famous sisters have been sharing the same wildly handsome tennis instructor without any of them knowing, only Tippi refuses to confirm names until I see her!’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I haven’t got the stomach for it. The entire place sounds like a zoo.’

‘But a beautiful zoo,’ Mallory sighed, ‘with sun and sand and glorious sea!’

‘And far too many wild animals. Be careful, Mal,’ she warned. ‘Don’t let Tippi eat you for lunch!’



Shortly after midday, Monsieur Tissot rang; he’d managed to arrange a meeting with Yvonne Hiver, who’d requested that they meet at the apartment.

Grace decided to walk to the appointment. When she arrived in the courtyard outside the apartment, a large shiny black Daimler was already parked outside; a uniformed driver was leaning against the bonnet, smoking a cigarette as she passed by.

She’d hoped to be the first one here, to have a few moments alone in the apartment again.

The front door was propped open. Someone had been scrubbing the steps; a tin bucket and brush were pushed to one side in the hallway. Mounting the stairs, she heard voices – Monsieur Tissot and a woman; low voices, speaking French.

The door to the flat was open. Grace walked inside to find them standing in the drawing room, facing the wall of windows that overlooked the garden square below.

They turned.

Yvonne Hiver looked younger than she’d expected. Dressed in a very modern tweed sheath dress that hugged her figure, with a Persian lamb scarf, she exuded the air of a woman used to spending her days glowing brightly at the centre of her own, personal solar system. Her matching hat had a thin mesh veil which she had folded back; her hair was brushed away from her face, highlighting her excellent bone structure, and her eyes were accentuated by bold flourishes of black eyeliner. It was the kind of deceptively simple day ensemble that easily cost a fortune.